As
I passed the dilapidated front door of number 62 Alexander Avenue, a voice
called down to me. I looked up through the gloom. The misty shape of a head appeared
to be suspended from a window above me.
It was a Friday, in the cold white
twilight of January the third, my father’s birthday; he was working away again,
mum wasn’t happy.
The year escapes me. I’d hazard a guess at
1951. I was ten, maybe eleven: primary school age. I was on my way home from a friend’s house. Number
sixty-two was, like the other properties in the centre of that blitz-scarred, Victorian
terrace, neglected and derelict. A far cry from what I see today: much shorter
terraces of modern maisonettes, high and low-rise blocks of flats, promised homes
for East Londoners after years of war, rationing and, despite a booming job
market, homelessness. But as Dad said: ‘You mark my words, now that Churchill is
back, all will soon be well again.’
For obvious reasons the house
numbers have changed but I think I’m in the right part of the street. Back
then, there were warning notices on every door, every lamp-post, every tree. Not
before time, the whole area was due for demolition.
“Are you talking to me?” I responded.
“Can you please help me?” The man’s
voice was croaky, old.
I recalled my mother’s words, ‘Charlie,
don’t you ever talk to strangers.’ A warning that threw me into a dilemma with
another of her mantras, ‘Never be too shy to help those in need.’ With that
contradiction in mind, I considered the stranger’s request. I could, of course,
have just continued on my way. There was no way he could have seen me, there were
no consequences to worry about; but doing nothing, would have bothered me. What
If something was seriously wrong? If something bad had happened and I could
have helped, I’d never have been able to forgive myself.
“What’s the matter?” I called back.
“Can you come up here. Just push
the door, it’s open.”
That I didn’t expect. I imagined
that he wanted me to run to the shops for something; expecting me to blindly go
into that house was a whole different ball game.
“Why?” I shouted back.
“Just push the door, come up the
stairs and along the landing,” his voice had grown a little weaker. “I’m in the
second room on the left. Hurry.”
“I’ll see if I can find someone to
come in with me.”
“No need, you can do this by
yourself.”
“Do
what?”
My mind was racing, the sensible
thing to do was knock next door. There was no way, I should be entering that
house alone, but the whole street had been vacated. The road itself was
littered with rubbish, bricks and broken glass. What the hell was he doing in
that house, anyway? No one should have been living there? He was probably a
tramp. Homeless, skint, injured, maybe even dangerous.
“Help me…. Please, help me….”
“Are you hurt; do you want me to call
for an ambulance?”
When
he didn’t reply, I started to panic. I was totally alone, no passers-by, no
cars, only me, what could I do? I ran up
and down the street, frantically shouting at broken windows.
I returned to the house and
carefully considered my options. If I pushed the door open, just a little, I
might have been able to see if it was safe enough to enter. During October and
November, most empty houses, these included, would have been ransacked for
furniture, floorboards, rafters, anything to help fuel the Guy Fawkes bonfires.
Regardless of how dangerous that bloke might have been, the house itself could
have been a serious health risk, but I couldn’t leave without at least taking a
look.
I picked up a broken brick from the
pavement, moved closer to the door and listened. All was silent. I stepped
back, and lifted my eyes towards the fast-disappearing floating head.
“Should I call for an ambulance?” I
repeated.
“No, I just need you to come up
here. Hurry.” His voice, barely audible.
He sounded like I was beginning to
feel, desperate, but his voice definitely came from upstairs. So, he wasn’t
behind the door, waiting to jump me. But he might not be alone in there. There might
be two or even more of them.
That last thought spooked me.
I stepped into the road and reconsidered.
It was growing darker; the main road was
around three hundred yards to my left, to my right were more streets like that
one. It was a shortcut all the kids used, but only when it was light, only when
there was less fear of tripping. There was only one option.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” I
shouted. “I’m going for help.”
Not waiting for a reply. I
dropped the brick and legged it towards the high street.
That was over thirty years ago.
This is the first time I’ve been back here since that scary encounter.
I did call for help, the man in
the newsagent phoned for the emergency services. Then, he told me to get myself home and not to
worry. That was like telling a kid not to worry about his lost dog.
On the following day, I returned
to the newsagent. He told me that, despite ambulance and fire crews spending
over an hour searching, not only number 62, but also the houses on either side
and across the street from it, no one was found.
I had considered going back to that
house to look for myself in daylight. However, the whole area was shut off that
morning, demolition works had begun. The sound of cascading brickwork put paid
to any of my superhero plans.
I look up at the double-glazed
window frames and wonder, ‘What if?’
‘What
if I could have helped? ‘What if he died in there?’ ‘What if I’d been braver?’
Shaking my head, I select first
gear. The radio is playing the Beatles:
‘Help’. My whole body is shaking.
I quickly silence John Lennon’s words, depress the accelerator and speed off, vowing never to return; and hoping that one day, I’ll be able to forget.
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